Manhattan Voyagers. Thomas Boone's Quealy
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bottle. “I’m still massaging this one.”
“Cheers, it’s on the house,” Arnie said, speaking out of the side of his mouth as he always did.
“Since when does a cheapskate like yourself buy customers back after the first drink?”
“Since I heard about your trouble, Jimmy.”
His jaw worked back and forth. “News travels fast.”
Arnie nodded sympathetically. “It does and bad news travels much faster than good news.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. It’s because people secretly enjoy gossiping about someone else’s troubles.”
“I see.”
“The krauts even have a name for it, Jimmy, they call it schadenfreude. It means pleasure which is derived from the misfortune of others.”
He nodded. “I learn something new every day.”
Arnie sprayed a bluish detergent on the bar’s surface and wiped it off with a damp cloth. “Don’t give up on yourself.”
“It’s easy for you to say; you’ve got a job.”
“We’ve all got our problems, Jimmy, you’re not unique by any means.”
He ran his hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Arnie, of course you have your own problems. Forget what I said, I was out of line, I apologize.”
“It’s already forgotten.”
“Thanks.”
“You can’t wait for life to make the next move, Jimmy, you need to take the Bull by the horns when it comes to looking for your next job.”
“I know; Tuck and me are going to try and figure that out tonight.”
“And choose wisely because at your age you only get one bite of the apple.”
“Has Tuck come in yet.”
“No.”
“What about Carl?”
Arnie picked up his empty beer bottle and dropped it into the recycle bin. “I’d stay away from him if I were you.”
“A man is considered innocent until proven guilty in this country.”
“I grew up in France, Jimmy, where the legal system operates under the Napoleonic Code. Over there, you’re presumed guilty until proven innocent.”
“Hmm.”
“It works better that way; they have much less crime and far fewer lawyers in France than we do here.”
“Are you going to return to France when you retire, Arnie?”
He shook his head. “Je deteste les Francais.”
“Oh.”
“It goes back to the war and the treatment of my parents.”
“I see.”
“There are some things a person can’t forgive or forget.”
“Has Eddie been in?”
“Yes, he’s here somewhere. But I’d stay away from him too.”
“Why?”
“Eddie is his own worst enemy, Jimmy, the guy needs to be protected from himself.”
“Hmm.”
He began to polish a line of brandy sniffers with a cloth. “It is very difficult to save people from themselves, Jimmy, almost impossible.”
“I realize that.”
“What Eddie needs is a strong dose of tough-love from his pals; a swift kick in the ass from his enemies wouldn’t do him any harm either.”
“I can’t disagree with you.”
“And he drinks like a fish.”
“I’ve never seen him drunk, Arnie, he’s always lucid no matter how many drinks he’s had.”
“Eddie’s a skillful lush; he’s an expert at hiding his alcoholism. It’s called the ‘Liar’s Disease’ for a very good reason.”
“Don’t be so sure. A rehab counselor once told me an alcoholic is defined, not by how much he drinks, Arnie, but by what effect the alcohol has on his personality after he drinks.”
The bar manager stopped polishing. “Listen to me, Jimmy, I’ve been around drunks my entire life and that bozo counselor doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”
“It’s his business, Arnie, it’s the way he makes his living.”
“Yeah, maybe so, but I’ll wager he doesn’t own a Mercedes or an apartment in Manhattan!”
Carl Pizzi, wearing a frayed sweatshirt, washed-out dungarees, and a stained Mets baseball cap on his head, entered the bar with a big-city-swagger.
“Speak of the Devil,” Arnie muttered, then suddenly remembered an urgent chore at the other end of the room.
Carl plopped down next to Jimmy and, true to form, immediately violated barroom protocol by hitting on a brunette a few stools away. “Hi, sweetie, I got a rocket in my pocket! Let’s do-the-hokeypokey, you and me!”
She quickly turned a cold shoulder.
Then he yelled at Arnie’s retreating back. “What’s a customer gotta do to get a watered-down drink in this crummy joint?”
“Take a chill pill, Carl, talking shit to people is no way to make friends.”
“I got all the friends I need, Jimmy, thank you very much.”
“A person can never have too many friends.”
Ashley, a statuesque brunette bartender with small body tattoos, made an appearance. A former model, she was a college student during the day.
“What’s with your boss, Ash?”
“Arnie doesn’t like you, Carl, he’d rather you took your business somewhere else.”
“I’m going to complain to Hilda, his customer relations skills suck.”
“That won’t get you anywhere, Carl, she doesn’t like you either.”
He smiled. “Do you like me, Ash?”
She looked him up and down critically. “I like your Mets hat.”
“That’ll do, babe, bring me a gin and tonic.”
“Coming right up.”
“I heard about you losing your job, Jimmy, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks for your concern.”
“He jabbed a thumb towards Ashley. “Now her job is recession-proof, the worse the economy gets, the more tips she makes. People guzzle drinks by the case when they’re worried about paying the bills.”
“I’m not so sure even her job is safe anymore.”
“Oh?”
“An IBM supercomputer recently defeated two former champions on the Jeopardy game show and won the $1.0 million prize. Now that computers can understand and respond to a spoken language, the pundits believe they can replace humans in many service jobs.”
He snickered. “I got a question for you, Jimmy.”
“Go ahead.”
“When’s the last time you got a hard-on staring at a computer?”
“You may have a point there, Carl, about bartenders.”
“They don’t call themselves bartenders anymore, Jimmy, now they